Lost Stars
by RumpelstiltskinWantsMySanity
Summary: Born to families who despise one another, Jace and Clary are at first, unsure of what to make of their friendship. But once the thin line of love is tenderly crossed, havoc strikes their world. As the wretched tragedies of war and family dispute barges into their lives, the things they sacrifice for each other haunt them as they escape into a bloodstained world of danger. 1800's AU
1. Wings and Things

**A/N: Yo! So you've read the summary. Yeah...anyways! This is rated M, and I will warn you if there is any vile content present, though I find it pointless considering the clearly visible rating. There are OOC concepts in here, so if you're not cool with that...bye, I guess? I hope there'll be a God damned lemonade stand fostering somewhere in the near future... This is set in the nineteenth century, so if any of the dialogue seems bleh to you, let me know and I'll fix it! ALSO, Clary and Jace are seven and eight respectively in this specific chapter. Maybe the next. No, definitely the next.**

 **A huge thanks to Enchanted21 for beta-ing! (And Grammarly, though I'd prefer if it fell in a hole and scooped its eyes out.)**

 **Apart from that, enjoy!**

Wings of blue, teal, purple, pink – _every_ color, stained the sky with their magnificence, all belonging to fluttering, elegant butterflies. They were dancing, casting shadows on the swirling sunrise, which made the burst of color stronger, intensified. The clouds, though faint little whispers of cotton, twirled around the sunrise and the butterflies and the sleeping town below, creating this film of blurriness that made you question if the pallet of vibrant shades was even real. If it was all part of your imagination, and if you blinked, the muddled guck would be gone, leaving you in your classroom, with all the students laughing at you for daydreaming. But indeed, it was real. Real and animated and whirling with life in front of the town's drooping eyes.

That – the skies and the clouds – was only a droplet of the magic of _Spring_. Spring, the most wonderful, vivacious season of all. It was as if mother nature chose to rest her dwellings in the likes of Spring, only occasionally visiting Summer and Winter and Autumn; the mere liveliness of Spring herself ignited a spark of ambition in one's soul, a spark so rare and powerful, it took the dazzling influence of that specific season to set it alight.

It was a lovely Saturday morning, the wispy breeze weaving through the obstacles of the early morning streets. It crept under the dresses of the wandering ladies and stirred a small wind, lifting their skirts embarrassingly high. Though, much to the breeze's misfortune, there were very few people on the thin, black lanes. A man, albeit a small one, clothed in a shell of black fabric, chugged down the street looking to be in a real hurry. A woman, wearing a flowing, purple dress, and a child who was walking dutifully alongside his mother, also occupied the narrow strip of road. And finally, a little girl in a frail, mint green tea gown, streamed down the concrete, chasing a pair of blazing orange wings.

They flitted through her line of sight like a thought would flit through her mind: barely noticeable, there for only a flash of a second. But she spotted it with her luminous green eyes, and her feet pounded across the bitter ground if only to cage it with her hands for a measly few seconds. It would bring a gush of enrapturement through her veins nevertheless, having _at last_ captured a small, winged beast. A little girl's dream.

The soaring creature seemed to mock her, pointing its finger at her as she hopped and skipped to catch up with it, little giggles giving way along with her breathy panting. Crimson tendrils of hair stormed around her head, some wiping across her face while others tickled her back; her mother never asked the maids to cut it short, resulting in impossibly long hair that reminded her of the blonde princess with hair longer than a waterfall from the fairytales. With the tan freckles that flew across her face like birds across an open sky, and eyes that shone with that trademark childhood curiosity, she looked so innocent. Saying no to her felt like a sin.

She trailed behind the butterfly for an eternity, the sounds of her flats beating the ground echoing through the sleeping town streets. After a while of relentless chasing and not paying attention to where the menacingly evil yet beautiful creature was leading her, the ominous trees of a forest captured her tiny body in their mysterious claws. A squeal, one of fear and loss, spilled from her lips as she realized where she was – or rather, where she _wasn't_.

Her mind was in turmoil, an iron rod burning with panic running along the stretch of her abdomen. Then the rod went to her legs and she started to make a break for it. Trees whizzed by her, a foggy mist of brown and green and yellow - from the sun - clouding her vision, making it seem like she was running through nowhere. Through a dream. And God, did she hope it was a dream. She even pinched herself, the vibrations of pain unlocking another squeal.

And when the realization that, yes, she was lost, and yes, she needed to stop the running and the squealing, she halted, gasping and out of breath. She was bold enough not to sob her brains out right then and there, her father had raised her that way: crying was _not_ the solution; tears only led to more chaos, chaos no one wanted.

Walking. She started walking, not running nor jogging nor stampeding. Calm, little footsteps crunching the leaves and snapping the twigs. Her gown had caught on the spindly tree branches, but she paid no mind, resulting in oddly shaped tears scattered between seams and folds, shredded lace the most treacherous thing of all.

She was walking, where? She wasn't entirely sure on that, but she simply let her legs and her feet and her brain lead her. Let the _forest_ lead her.

Perhaps a few minutes may have zoomed by, perhaps more, perhaps less. But she reached. And her gaze punctured sizzling holes into what lay before her, the intensity starling even the wildlife, for they all gazed back her, stopping their leisurely day-to-day activities to catch a glimpse of the spoiled redhead with the ripped dress and the green eyes that seemed to hold the whole forest within them. If they looked closely enough, miniscule specs of gold would be hiding in her irises, a few dots of lighter green peeking out too. Gold like the sun. Green like the lighter leaves.

But it was that specific green that tinted the scene before her, and the beautiful landscape appeared to be blushing with the sudden pinkish hue the butterflies gave. There was a little, enchanting opening in the middle of a cluster of trees, a beam of sunlight shooting through the center. It was like something out of the books, where the little girl got lost and finds a magical oasis in the desert.

There were colorful birds chirping about and not paying attention to her, but they made the scene so, _so_ much more mystical.

A chipping, yet smooth stump rooted itself in the midst of the ray of daylight, perfect for sitting and reading. Maybe it was small children's books, but still counting as classified reading.

"Woah," she whispered, stepping into the circle of light. She felt the iron rod that kissed her skin a few minutes ago dissipate, a ribbon of curiosity tying itself around her in its place. Peace found her, as she seated herself on the stump, not at all hearing the footsteps behind her. The gears in her mind, rusted and shrieking, stopped their irritating actions, the delicate hands of peace holding them from moving.

And then everything went downhill. Fast. "Hey!" a boy's voice hooted, close to her. She started, whipping around and making her hair fly everywhere. Furious, golden eyes clacked against hers, like two rocks colliding. His scrutiny ran through her whole body as her fury started to match his, _roaring_ flames of annoyance and defensiveness scorching the ribbons knotted around her. "Get away, you little snitch!" he snarled, a nasty scowl twisting his lips.

"And _why_ should I do that?" she demanded, shooting upright and placing her hands on her hips roughly.

"Because!" he shouted, scrambling for a reason, in the end finding none. Instead, as a scrawny 'comeback', he decided to retort with, "little _girls_ are _not_ supposed to be out in the woods, now are they? And little _girls_ are _not_ allowed in _my_ space. I may possibly get sick if you're too close to me." A smug grin spread across his face, slower than molasses, as he watched her cheeks pop into a shade redder than cherry. Angrier than a bull. More flustered than a teacher trying to educate incompetent kids, being constantly interrupted at every available interval, and then, finally, throwing her books down and slamming the door of the classroom shut.

She was beyond pissed. Beyond anything, at this point. She was, after all, a little girl. And though we, as humans, are entitled to nothing, the entitlement of useless, invigorating anger was all hers to play with.

"Well," she said, eye twitching noticeably. Her fists clenched and unclenched, nails biting into the skin of her palms, leaving shallow pink gashes in their wake. Like they were leaving footsteps in a snowy field. "Do you so happen to own the forest?" An answer never came from him, because as he opened his mouth, she had already started speaking. "I think not! The trees would hate it here, if you ruled _all_ of them…I don't think it's fair! Why do _you_ get to _act_ like you rule the forest, huh? Why do _you_ get to pretend and _I_ can't?" Her lips slanted to her left, face contorting along with them. The boy took this as a look of puzzlement, like she was _actually_ pondering her own question. "If you get to, then so do I," she declared at long last, grasping nothing rational as an answer.

The boy summoned words to his mouth, he really did, but they all sat in his throat, pooling up. He would have had to choke to get them out, and he was not about to embarrass himself in front of a mere _girl_ , one he barely knew yet already had a strong opinion about. With his childish senses, he was trained, day in and out, to not have interest in any girl… _except_ for his mother. His mother was the best girl ever.

" _Fine_ ," he complied, ashamed of himself for giving up so easily, for letting the mountain fall from his fingers. For listening to a girl. But then a question scratched through the sturdy barriers of his skull and into his brain, making him wonder impossibly. It evolved into words, words that swam through the pool in his throat, splashing out. "Do you know how you've even gotten here?" Curls of ruby were dragged along with her fingers as she rubbed her arm, an awkward air passing between them.

She whispered an incomprehensible phrase, ivy gaze diverted to the ground, suddenly taking interest in the bugs prancing about the grass.

The boy cocked an eyebrow, though she couldn't see it unless she glanced up. And, for some nonsensical reason that she could not decipher for the life of her, she looked towards him, as if the lifting of his brow triggered the lifting of her head. "I got lost," the redhead mumbled, finally meeting his eyes with hers. There was a part of him that softened. Like melting butter spreading out onto a porcelain plate. A warm explosion burst through her stomach, the feeling of friendliness and consideration oozing throughout her muscles. "Are you lost, too?"

Her gaze pressed down on him, as she absorbed his lanky arms and skinny legs, his trousers that hung loosely and his suspenders acting as the string keeping it all together. This cherub little smile tugged at his plumped lips, an adorable look for a child, and she watched even that. "My father gave me a map." He dipped into his trouser pockets, only to pull out a delicate piece of paper that appeared to be drenched in brown-yellow tea. "It has all _sorts_ of things! The mountains on that side of Idris," the girl followed the arm of his shirt as he pointed to her left, sparkles of awe and amusement inspiring in both their eyes. "The barbarian lands over there," he directed his hand north, fingers catching the sunlight, "the great, big ocean," his head whipped south, towards the ever-stretching sea, "and, my favorite, the war…the war and _weapon_ grounds!"

The dirt let out a gravelly moan as the boy's shoes twisted, letting him face east. He took enthuse filled steps in the general direction, and when he heard softer steps behind him, a grin took over his face. His mind went into hyperdrive, with him imaging himself in battle armor, the cold metal stinging his skin. He would be observing the arrows shot from his own bow, seeing as they flew into his enemy's heart and sent them staggering to the ground, as if injured gazelle. Then, after a few years of killing souls and drenching the battlefield in apple-red blood, thick as the disgusting medicine his mom made him drink when he was sick, his fellow soldiers would hoist him up on their shoulders, the air ringing with the cheers of his name.

 _Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan Herondale, the great!_

"Jonathan," he whispered into the widespread east, hoping the winds would foster the budding dream of his. "Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan Herondale, the great war hero." The chattering of the trees was enough to start the gossip; Jonathan Herondale was going to be a name well-known, the leaves and the animals and the clouds had a feeling. The sun may have possibly been contributing to the cause as well.

In fact, the little whisperings _did_ flow through the wind, because the small girl behind him yelped, eyes stretched wide. _'Jonathan Herondale'_ , she thought. _'Herondale.'_ "Are you—are you really, truly Jonathan Herondale? Because—well," a deep intake of breath shook through her as his squinting, amber gaze fell upon her form, face screwing up in confusion. "Mother tells me that…just—just that all the Herondales are bad and cheaters and sometimes can be very, very mean." She rushed the last part, her mind not quite keeping up with her mouth, because she then slapped her hand to the source of her babbles, scared and ashamed, two emotions that were anything but familiar. "I—I'm sorry."

"It's…okay, I guess. I mean, it _is_ your mother who said all that…but, do you—do you actually _believe_ them?"

"I—"

"It's fine if you do," Jonathan Herondale reassured, defeat lining his tone. Instead of staring at the ground, letting the defeat show visibly, he kept his eyes on her. On her face, and immediately was shot down by the bullets of fury emitted from the green swishing in her irises. There were these iridescent speckles of golden in her eyes too, and for once, Jonathan didn't feel weird about having a gaze the color of pee. _'Ew'_ , he thought, physically disgusted. But he was still confused as to why she was mad. Why she was _furious_ , quite honestly. Why?

"I don't," she started, feeling him listen to every slip-up she made. "Hate you, that is. I don't hate you. You know why?"

"No—?" Her back turned to him, the bullets now firing to the tree trunks. When she shut her eyes, enveloping herself in a world of pitch black, nothingness, the bullets stung at the backs of her eyelids.

She was fuming, so much so, that steams may have been shooting from her nose. The fact that Jonathan Herondale, the same one that her parents had made out to be so incompetent and arrogant and unforgiving, was anything but, made her question everything, in and out. She wasn't mad at him, God no, she, in reality, was absolutely raging at her parents for lying straight through her. For feeding her false truths, things she was supposed to live off for a good amount of time.

There were fumes of astonishment billowing off him, filled with images of the war and the oceans and barbarians and _everything_ locked away in his wondrous mind, it infected her in such a way that she felt there was a permanent imprint of his doing, somewhere in her brain. Like a drug, like anything, a small dose is enough to get you addicted, sticking to it like a moth to a flame. And she was entranced by the curiosity that erupted from his eyes and his mouth, the remnants singing her skin—her mind in an alluring way.

"Because. Because my parents were lying, and I don't like lies. Lies are mean and…and plain _stupid_!" She shivered; a blast of wind crawled under one of the gory rips in her dress, caressing the skin of her legs. "My mother and father lie to me all the time."

"Me too." Jonathan padded over to the tree stump, plopping himself upon it. Splinters of wood nagged his skin through the trousers that were supposedly very thick. "They tell me the Mor—Morgen—Morgenstern," he silently smiled to himself; he got it right! "the _Morgenstern_ family is dangerous, and that I should stay away from them."

A quizzical expression embraced the girl's face. "How did you—? I didn't even tell you my name."

Jonathan smirked, quiet laughter scraping through his body. She looked like a gaping fish. "There are only two redheads in this part of Idris," two fingers shot up from his fisted hands as he remembered their names, "one is Jocelyn Mor—Morgenstern and the other is Clarissa Morgenstern. You have a real funny last name," he said slyly.

And there was the unnecessary and invigorating anger back at it again. "Yeah?! Well, you—you have a weird last name too! What is a Herondale? You are mixing a bird with a 'dale'! Why a 'dale'? Why not a…a flower! Heronflower sounds so much better!" She bolted around, staring him dead in the eye. If looks could kill, he would have fallen off the local church and been attacked midair with an arrow. He near well toppled off the stump. "And also, you don't even know which Morgenstern," a mocking look was tossed in his direction, "I could possibly be."

"Jocelyn's a boy's name. Which means you have to be… _Clarissa_. Father told me it means bright and colorful, and if you ask me, it doesn't really fit you. Annoying and weird is what fits you. Or! Or, you could be named Emily, it means 'rival'. I'm fighting my Emily!"

"Oh, shut up," Clarissa snarled, serenity morphing into something vile. "Even if I was an Emily, I would make sure to definitely stay far, far away from the likes of _you_. I may be small, colorful, and annoying, but I'm not stupid enough to take the mean things you say to me sometimes. Perhaps mother was correct after all…perhaps Heronflowers _are_ very, very mean." She was kidding. Of course, she was. The grin on her face said so, right?

Jonathan could see right through her, like she was glass and he was sunlight. It made sense.

 **A/N: Jocelyn wasn't mandated as a girl's name until the 20th century, just to clear things up, so I don't know how _Jocelyn_ is actually going to work here. A totally special thanks 'taught. to. dream30' for putting up with my annoying time zone, and for giving me the necessary moral support for this. She's a pretty great writer with amazing talent, so check her things out! You won't regret it I promise. For those of you inquiring about my other stories, I'm teeter tottering in between, maybe I'll continue it if I have enough willpower, and, I do not want to ever touch it because it's a fucked up concept that I may have taken waaaay too far. **

**Feel free to review, those things inspire me. A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU, AND MAY YOUR NEW YEARS RESOLUTION NOT FAIL LIKE IT MIGHT HAVE DONE LAST YEAR!**

 **\- RWMS**


	2. The Dealings of the Dark

**A/N: After the sad disaster that was the clusterfuck of the previous upload of this chapter, I apologize to those who had to read an atrocity like that. There were too many words and too much happening, I think my brain farted and stressed too much.**

 **As for this chapter, the first scene is the same. I liked it, okay, I'm sorry. And I need you to read the last scene – I have all the evil plans in store ;)** **Apart from that, if you'd like to just not read this at all, that's something I'm not against. AT ALL. I mean, this one's the _definition_ of a filler.**

 **Anyway. I don't know if you'll enjoy.**

 _March 8th, 1874_

 _Alicante, Idris_

Dinner with the Morgensterns that night was a stiff affair; they were all treading the blade of a knife, and if any of them slipped—even with the intention of an _accident_ —the grotesque edge would dice them to pieces driven with fear. Candles, reflective and diminishing like broken buildings, gave off little cackles, laughing at the awkwardness so thick. Anyone of them could, quite honestly, take a knife—say the one they were treading on, and slice a neat piece out of the fattening tautness, serve it to eighteen kingdoms, and still have a bountiful share of scraps.

Devilish light—a common trait of the candles—shot out from the dancing flames, crawling across the stone ceiling. Clarissa had always thought fire, so bold and confidently disrupting, was a like dress that the wicks wore to shroud their usually bare nature. Their utterly _boring_ nature. For a while, she never understood why her mother had demanded fiercely that she stay miles away from the glistening, energetic eruption of orange. Its dances were so beautiful, performing these dauntless ballets as if the whole world was glued to the flickering of its feet…And once she dared to risk her precious, soft fingertips and touched it—just a tiny peck, she had cried for the third time in her existence, a flag in her timeline. Embarrassment pushed her cheeks into an everlasting blush that horrid day. If she squinted firmly enough—the firmest, she could still catch a glimpse of the rosy flush.

"Pass the salt," requested a boyish voice quietly, speaking so fast he stumbled over his words, effectively slurring. A blurry smudge of pale darted into her line of sight, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered what it wanted, what it was. Then, it wiggled, as if a horde of worms. _Pass the salt_. Of course; they were fingers! _'Silly, silly me!'_ , she chastised herself.

Her gaze was like two shamrocks, planted behind her pupils as she inspected the hefty dinner table. "Salt, _please_ ," the voice repeated. Dangerous irritation zipped through her, bolting from her feet to her head and back again. Back again. Fast as a frightened horse.

" _Wait_. I don't want to accidentally pass the _pepper_ , unless that's what you wish, moron," she hissed out through her gritted teeth, launching those trademark bullets in her brother's fateful direction. He, regretfully enough, glared right back, making the bullets shatter and collapse onto the wooden table. She could hear them rattle, the sound like woe to her ears.

Jonathan Morgenstern—a Jonathan more ignorant and disdainful than that blonde-haired _'angel'_ whose gestures were crazed and enthused in some insane type of way—was only a few years older than his temperamental redhead of a sister. His hair was like hardened gallium, silvery and coarse, especially in the warming candlelight which brought out the strokes of hidden blonde as an Easter egg. There were shamrocks in his eyes too, and it was like a cauldron in there; so many emotions were melted into his gaze, so carefree, reckless, that it was hard to differentiate one from the other, but if Clarissa tried hard enough, used all her muscle to pry them apart, there would be a noticeably fat line between arrogance and love.

"Clarissa," warned her mother, Jocelyn Morgenstern, a woman of pride and morals placed in behavior. Evidently. "Be nice to your brother! Where are your manners? After all," the woman let out a weighted sigh, glancing at her daughter's eyes, which were reduced to skinny slits, "you _did_ sneak out this morning. And dear _God_ , the way you muddied your dress! You've al _ready_ been restricted to your room, do you truly want another punishment, dear?"

"No, mother," she said, bowing her head so that her pinked cheeks could hide behind the volumes of her hair. The smell of soup, beef, and everything heavenly tip-toed into her nostrils, dripping down her throat, slowly, and in the end circling her stomach. It made the unsettled organ churn, a grumbling sound resonating through the barriers of her skin. _'Wrong time, stomach'_ , she scolded. Thankfully, not even a single soul seemed to take notice.

"You simply have to be mindful," her father, Valentine Morgenstern, reassured, his tone so much softer than her mother's. Though, it was like he was hugging her, but had an arsenal of knives behind his back; there was a subtle undertone of warning sneaking out—she could tell, for it grated her in all the wrong places, making her duck into a pit of defensiveness for shelter. "We cannot bear the burdens of our own problems as it is, do you really think that your misdoings will help with that?"

"No, father."

"Be thankful you haven't ended up like those Herondale rats…" A snarl grasped his face, his eyes alight with unyielded _disgust_. "The way they maintain themselves—filthy, I tell you. No respect for anything." Clarissa heaved a sigh, taking the way it squeezed her stomach—which was already muttering phrases of hunger—as something to ignore.

"I'm sure, father." She passed the salt.

~Fancy Line Break~

From the moment she woke, she was taken by the columns of translucent, muted teal moonshine slowly building themselves into her room. They struck through her dresser; and the hulking piece of wooden furniture was flushed with sickly sea-green, looking as though it was about to spill its guts out from nausea. And the white of her blankets…it was common fact that white was the helpless child of all the colors, having no plausible 'structure' to define itself. As a result, her once ivory bedsheets were catastrophic, suffocating on the infectious moonlight.

It was as if her eyes were pried open with a crowbar, droplets of energy oozing from her eyelashes, flowing down her cheeks, soaked up into her pores. She shivered beneath the ocean of blankets, like a fish craving to soar above the pressurizing waters, to see anything _but_ splotchy blue—albeit falling dead the very millisecond it hit the airy surface.

But, the mild tremors marching across her body were not caused by the cold, despite the hauntings of the wind as it announced itself with a vengeful howl; sleep was a fathomless thing, leaving cauldrons bubbling with energy, in its footsteps.

The full, reverberant boom of the clock tower bells thumped into her room violently through the windows, and her body jumped slightly with each thunder-like exclamation.

The eleventh of twelve bells unleashed its howl, and she wondered how the whole town didn't wake with the rage of time, but perhaps dreams did drug one's mind to swim in a fountain of spewing numbness.

If only it could infect her the way her excitement did, at that moment. And the two opposing sides, black and white, light and dark, numbness and excitement, soon struck their swords to battle, exhausting themselves, gurgling with blood, until…

Her bed squealed and whined, letting out a final, rickety shriek when she leapt from it—ungracefully so, too. Her vision was clouded with murkiness as she locked her eyes shut. But she then rebounded gut-wrenchingly back into reality by opening them, her legs now standing, bearing her weight once more, and her nightgown no longer crawled up to her waist under the shields of her blankets.

Floorboards became congested during the time that her feet pressed over them, almost punishing the wood slabs for their crimes of fading away, looking like frayed, worn cloths near the edges. She trailed her eyes to the hulking four poster bed, staring at it longingly.

She whipped her head to the preciously carved door just a yard from her, and shuffled to it indignantly, hating that sleep had galloped off into the sunset, leaving her to fend for herself. No weapons, no help.

The sting of the metal doorknob fell to unfeeling skin, her browned, chipped fingernails scraping against the winking silver. The thing was well oiled and greased, but the hinges of the weighty door, however, held different plans in their books.

A cringe dug thoroughly through her soul, squeezing her organs, when the hallway's openness was declared with the moans of the rusty hinges. Scarily empty, cold space screamed out at her blood-boilingly, and the doors lining the walls seemed to mock her too, pointing their wooden fingers.

The brisk floor stabbed her feet as if wintry breeze, twining around the gaps between her toes as she crept down the hallway. She stayed quiet and wary, the luminous gems carved into her eyes darting frantically at intervals, checking for any stray maids. Many of the doors peppered along the walls had drifted open, presenting a yawning blackness that seemed to fasten a rope of onyx tightly around her slim waist and compel her to walk into its trap.

A shut door then pulsed in her vision—her parents' quarters.

She'd been in the vast, homely space only once, when the sky shot arrows of thunder fiercely to the ground, jittery flames waking from the assault. The sudden bellow had jerked her down and across the hall, to where she was soon suffocating in the giddy scent of rose from her mother's hair, and her father's customary cooing and charm.

If only there was a lever to pull so that she could warp back in time, letting the moments of pain and hurt wash by her and then fall into a foggy gap of oblivion. She wanted a thief to rip the bad memories from her brain and sink them somewhere deep underground. And, if she could, she would drag herself back to the time when there _were_ little things to be happy about—a trinket resting soundly on her shelf, one that Valentine had purchased along his travels. Or when there were engulfing hugs from her mother to drown in—too many to count.

Those times had passed, though, and she just had to find a way to unlock the doors of acceptance.

~Fancy Line Break~

Relief came catapulting to her, the emotion flying around at top speed, the moment her feet landed at the base of the old staircase planted in the center of her house. And quite old it was, crafted with careful wrinkles and behaving like an aged man moaning about the summertime heat.

Soon the world built up around her, an arena made of pitch-black, crawling with creatures reeking of night, of darkness. Everywhere she looked, hoping for at least a soft splatter of light spreading against the dark, bitter and evil shadows towered over her instead, claws and fangs bared. _'Don't get too close to me'_ , she warned, bracing her hands slightly before her. _'Don't eat me up.'_

She passed the kitchen, marking the area with the glassy tiles etched into the floor. The maid's quarters were so close to her—the sounds of the ladies' snores streamed into her ears, but then they whisked in with the hoots dispensing from the owls that were streaking across the dim skies.

She was moving through a frozen-in-time world; if she somehow saw a falling plate chained midair, staying there, she wouldn't have been surprised. Everything was so _quiet_ and mysterious. She was now waiting for the eerie cords of a violin to dawn, discreet and beautiful like a sunrise—in situations where the mystery was written in chunky block letters, she'd always imagined spooky violin music strumming enchantingly in the background, though it only ever truly thrived in the inner-workings of her mind.

And, suddenly, the captivating rhythm vibrating from the strings swelled thrillingly, as if water foaming over a kettle, when the borders of the foyer brushed her feet. A coat rack jutted to her right, colorless fabrics lolling like kids off monkey bars, but they did not do anything to impede her vision.

Mere _yards_ from her, stood a cloaked figure before an open door, animated with cautiousness. He—or she, whoever this eminent fiend was, managed to stay startlingly visible, more tenebrous than the night itself. Perhaps _they_ were night—pure, unfiltered skies scribbled with charcoal, pin-pricks of lustrous white stars dotted here and there.

Bits of the outside world leaked in through the gaping door, the never-failingly bothersome din of crickets hopping to amplifying levels. A gale of wind roared, lifting back the hood of the cloak nimbly. Hair, though which color she was not entirely sure, flounced softly, drawing strands of shadow in place of what she had assumed was supposed to be color, above the partially drawn back hood.

Cool air stung her eyes as she propped them wide, and then the shape was gone, only a haunting mass of hollowness left in its wake.

 **A/N: I've caught myself a few spare minutes, so I'mma stay up reading instead of sleeping. Responsible, I know.**

 **Until next time, loves! :)**


	3. Careful When You're Walking in the View

_April 17, 1874_

* * *

 _Alicante, Idris_

* * *

The kitchen windows were gawking like an eye, their swinging shutters like eyelids, as the wind toyed with them.

A concoction of frustration and sorrow came out in the form of assorted growls from the cook's thin lips, wrapping signs blaring red around her: danger. Clarissa couldn't be more used to her cook's ministries and drastic mood swings, and sat on the velvet fabric of her sofa with disinterest.

Catarina Loss had been an enigma to the Morgenstern household for a most infinite amount of time. Smears of gossip revolving around her—her, and her past, and screams, and attitude—had somehow detonated uncontrollably the very week she had arrived, years ago. It had been a booming wildfire with fire made of words and sparks made of snickers.

Then, like a whip, she had somehow snapped.

And that was all Clarissa was exposed to, as Jonathan had pasted glue on his lips and it appeared Catarina's lips were woven purely for scowls and interjections of negativity. Jonathan, at least, would speak to her on a somewhat daily basis, pushing unnecessary sentences into her routine.

After a few seconds, Clarissa noticed a new aspect was sprinkled into the mournful groans travelling from the kitchen.

It was a cup of realization. A dash of frustration. And then, gallons of quiet beating the quivering air.

Then, through her buzzing ears, she heard the slash of sound the kitchen door made when it pounded shut, slapping its frame roughly. For a moment, the delicate chandelier hanging above her—which was a wonder all in itself, crafted from star fragments—sang a sweet and tinkly song.

She might've even felt her insides tremor.

An ugly noise ripped through the area surrounding her, leaving jagged edges in the fabrications of hope stitching within her. She had been praying that Catarina would turn a blind eye on her, but alas, there the woman was, ashen lips compelled downwards at the sight of the notoriously frazzled head of apple hair.

Clarissa bubbled air into her cheeks, as a child would do, looking so innocent that she could have driven a knife through a thousand souls, and everyone would have brushed by her as if she were harmless as stuffing. The gems in her eyes dull with pooling boredom, the girl snapped her head to Catarina, a honey smile tinkering with her complexion, contorting and deceiving.

There was something haunting about the concealed matrix of Catarina's face, something that seemed to always be weeping tirelessly—perhaps she'd caught the blues, except a permanent case. No matter how hard the cook would try to scrub the goopy sadness away, so hard there'd be splotchy red marks, it would stick stronger than the plague. Clarissa wondered if Catarina had ever played with happiness, ever stretched her lips into the formation of a smile. If her eyes, the filed-down cobalt masterpieces, had ever upheld a radiant quality.

Before she could escape the dense—and growing—forest of her mind and the beasts whose very beings were made of her thoughts, cold hands bit down on her own, and her little fingers knotted with thin ones. It was only by the grace of the venomous glare Catarina handed her, that she ripped herself away from the consuming grasp of the sofa.

"Where are we going?" The question plunged out of Clarissa with more curiosity than she would have preferred, causing the whole scheme of words to be nearly lost altogether, kidnapped by the sound of her front door opening and then her being dragged out of it. When an answer didn't float through, a frown nagged at her face, annoying like a nail barely scratching the surface of a table. Being ignored…it irked her, badly.

" _Where_ are we going?" she demanded again, temper expanding its arms wide and embracing her. As Clarissa jolted her vision up to Catarina, the passing streets and buildings encasing the two streaked together. At first, all the redhead's focus lingered on was the blanket of snow resting upon the older woman's head, the way each strand seemed to burn beneath the hands of the blistering ball of heat printed on the sky. Then, while seconds flapped away, leaving imprints of wasted time and stillness, Clarissa's most common emotion—irritation—colored her head thoroughly.

A sigh that was not hers walked up to her ears and shoved through to her brain. It smelled of defeat…and air, and warm, hot breath, embarrassing against the curtain of chill swirled by the wind. "The town square, gathering supplies," Catarina stated, simple and clear, her words as straight as her gaze, though there were brushes of reluctance. Clarissa let her excitement jump out only by squeezing Catarina's fingers tightly, and a smile snuggled in her eyes. It felt good, having it there. "And hush up about this, too, won't you? You and your miserable excuse of a brother are expected to be finishing up schoolwork as per request of your father, not roaming around with hoodlums and waltzing over to the market, understood?"

She hummed, shaking her head obediently. "I thought Jonathan was _allowed_ to be playing—well, he told me he finished his work before—" A silent glare was tossed at her, and she sheepishly glanced downwards. "If I'm not supposed to be out…then, why are you taking me with you?"

"Oh, don't tell me you didn't know how pathetic you looked, alone and wretched on that couch. Ha! I might have possibly mistaken you for a dead animal had I not been a considerate human."

~Fancy Line Break~

The day may have just begun, droopy-eyed and slightly exhausted, but the heart of Alicante was beating with oceans of liveliness, pumping strong waves of chatter and movement. Children wasted coins on the eloquent fountain overseeing all the hurry blossoming in the square, much to the dismay of their parents. Shoes, both worn and prim, punched at the dusty ground, and the assault rang and rang. There were carefully set-up tents splayed everywhere, bargaining and selling one-of-a-kind goods that came from lands of myth and kingdoms of legend. From the sky everything looked a colorful disarray. Birds tweeted their dismay and flew on.

The moment Catarina rested her eyes safely upon the hectic mess, the deafening noises were blanketed. She caught the stares and glances slung in the air with surprising elegance, bending the mechanics of mockery, and never breaking a sweat. The ground froze from the coolness of her eyes' caress. And suddenly, time stopped.

She, once again, became frosty ice with a flaming heart.

An inferno, kindled by the insidious fury and defiance resting on her chest, writhed throughout the entirety of the square as her narrowed stare lagged agonizingly over _each and every_ body there. She could hurt them _all_ for the way they'd twisted her, so few years ago. Bring upon them pain unimaginable, let them see the stars cowering behind the sun's blinding shine. She—

Something squirmy and moist squeezed tight at her fingers, jump-scaring her out of the bloodstained alternate reality that had eaten her alive. She was about to yell, about to uproot the meaning of this rude interruption from this slimy thing, until she actually _looked_ at it: the epitome of fear, reaching out to her aching heart and dulling the rage. In all the time she had sustained hardship and tears, Catarina failed to face something as scared as this; her soul curled up in hatred of itself whenever she thought about it.

Forever, she knew, her mind would be burnt by the scalding jade eyes that played with a fire more dangerous than her own.

~ Fancy Line Break~

At first, he thought it was a breathing, walking tendril of lava that was smoking up the square below, slithering through masses and then pooling up as it stood still. Yet…yet there was no smoke and too much fire. He scoffed.

From his perch atop a grey terrace, where he was absolutely certain he had the _clearest_ view of the commotion heaving below, Jonathan—or _Jace_ , as the Lightwoods preferred—Herondale set his sight out for smoke exercising in the air, for when there was fire, smoke was sure to rise, too. Alas the blond found nothing, and quickly cursed the dimming clouds for fooling him.

Below, in the flooding square, there was a white head of hair—with every ounce of honesty within him, he was sure that it was spun from flour—flowing choppily next to the lava, and before he could bellow to stop it, the mound of flour bent down to the puddle of heat, handed it something glistening, and seemed to be… _whispering?_ Since when could a fire fathom words? If that was the case, he'd fancy a shape-shifting mongoose with a pink bottom!

In the distance, the sky spit out the caw of a bird, resonant and tearing through the atmosphere, and a crazed grin turned his face into a cynical mess. Jace felt the railing that he was leaning on shift a bit; a shadowy figure eroded the color away from his right-most line of sight. "I believe," said Jace inquisitively to the craftwork of shadow, "that the square will set on fire. Burning buildings and all. Maybe if we rush home and grab all the meats, we can roast them over the bonfire that'll ensue. But we have to be quick. Alec, you can run fast, right?"

"The maids would do a better job at roasting meat," stated the figure—Alec—his boyish tone showing no soft spots, and very flat. "Besides, everything would reek of human rot and ash here. And, you should know—"

"That isn't a fire, you dim-wit," another, high-pitched voice scolded, popping into Jace's left side. Strands of the midnight sky flew down in the form of hair and kissed his fingers, and he wondered, for a moment, if kisses truly felt that sweet. But then a disgusted shudder ran through him. "That's a head! You know, the round thing teetering off your neck—it contains the brain that you fail to have."

Jace's cheeks twitched, and a smile rolled lightly upon his face, slow like water sinking in sand. The backs of his eyelids doused in orange when he closed them, the rays of the sun charging from afar and onto his face. "Rather I have a heart than a brain," he said, and mostly, he was proud of himself for saying something remotely of value. He had that swelling feeling, that if his mother was there, standing beside him, she would smile so wide her cheeks would have torn open. Concrete grains, uneven like his pulse, rough like acorns, pinched his hands as his fingers and palms pressed themselves further down into the railing.

" _Compassion—care..._ love _," there was a certain ignition of conviction when Celine Herondale let the timeless word drop from her lips, "these…these are like the stars shining amongst our vast sky. We must not reach for them with our bare hands; instead, we must follow them and allow them to guide us. For we are not human without them."_

The words were cut carefully into Jace's memory by his mother. Of course, it was his mother. She had taken an iron pen, dipped it in ink that stank of importance, and carved the phrase deep in his conscience. The buds of innocence within him, which somehow still had the light to pry themselves open, sucked the letters and words in eagerly, later working hours upon hours to decrypt the torturous meaning behind everything. Jace had only extracted the first three words, and the rest was clogged by a wall of vines.

Spears of sound splintered the insignificant stupor that had enveloped him, then. "I guess so. But, sometimes I think love's this odd, sticky feeling—I don't like it," replied the girl with the night sky for hair. "It's like a sickness: you can't get rid of it. And then when it's gone you feel weak, like the wind's been forever knocked out of you. I think that's what mother feels, sometimes. She's so far away…"

"Beware, Isabelle," said Jace, minute sadness and an itching curiosity running under his voice. "You sounded almost wise, there. We both know you're far too fragile for wisdom." Alec let out a subtle snort, wincing when Isabelle reached over Jace to gift him a neat jab on the back. Jace got a harsher one on the shoulder; glory was nectar while it lasted.

"Says the boy who sleeps with a wooden sword every night and sobs when it has the absolute _tiniest_ crack in its blade," she said mockingly. "Besides," Isabelle muttered, quiet all of a sudden. "Mother's been tired as of late. It leaves the maids or Alec to cook—it's like dying rats in a pot with him. What he does isn't cooking." She sent a nicely packaged glare at her brother, commenting on his dangling jaw by claiming, "I'm doing you a favor by comparing your…rubbish, to rats. There _are_ worse things."

"It isn't as if you can do better," spat Alec, though lighthearted, his scuffed nails irritating the railing.

But, he understood Isabelle's struggle; when he twisted his head toward her, through the dense layers of playfulness, he identified nebulas of hurt and solar systems compressed by unimaginable grief. The complicated galaxies in her eyes whirled with something that was far beyond words. He could not blame her for the immeasurable number of bruises in her heart, for her pain was always his. For some reason, they were surprisingly skilled in hiding emotions. Hurt often disguised itself as the fiend that is humor, and pain was compressed like the pages of a thousand-page book.

Before long, another caw echoed through the skies, scratching the clouds and piercing ears. "Reva," the name came from Jonathan's mouth as nothing more than a whisper amongst the wind, and he could feel the newly-awoken smiles the Lightwoods wore.

~Fancy Line Break~

The golden coins bouncing in Clarissa's hand grinned widely under the sun, teeth emitting blinding spots of light. Catarina had handed them to her, with the words, "spend wisely, girl," as a token of advice, before disappearing into the square.

Alicante had picked out a melodramatic dress that day, the cotton clouds dull, and the sun only allowed to burst through the seams occasionally. Whenever it did, though, all the world's amenities were basking in brilliance. Clarissa's gaze happily greeted all the exquisite stalls, tents, and shops.

A silent earthquake rumbled in her stomach then, and her mouth was sticky, dry like bread; and she'd realized breakfast had fluttered past her without a word. The smells of pastries and chocolates and savory goodness fell suddenly around her as if a bulky, woolen blanket. Freshly baked dreams linked arms with each new tide of scent, and she wondered that if only the smells were a bit more palpable, they'd morph into actual food.

Money heavy in her palms, mind intent with stuffing something—anything—into her crying mouth, and eyes delirious in the name of gut-wrenching hunger, her frantic feet sped their pace, agile through the clustered crowd. Splattered as they were, the food stalls were quite easy to find, and with the limited money she had, Clarissa rushed up to a colorful one and politely asked the salesman for a tart, because it was the cheapest.

The man chuckled, his paper skin folding with the action. So thin was his skin, that blue veins, tangled like the limbs of fighting men, stood stark. Logic failed to play its card when the man tucked the tart into an unkempt napkin; how did those nimble veins not burst under the pressure of the baked delight?

Head still stuck in a chaos of childish questions, she mindlessly dropped seven coins into the paper-man's hand, snatched the tart, and rejoined the outbreak of hustling people. Too many bodies surrounded her, sucking up space, and effectively depriving her food of the need to breathe. She wasn't about to devour her way-too-late breakfast and risk it being violated by a coat!

That customary darkness provided only by the closed hands of a little girl welcomed the tart, and it bounced around in a cage of fingers. After a few desperate minutes, brightness jolted the bundle of sweetness to color once again. And, in the new setting of seclusion, hidden behind grey-washed brick walls of a peculiarly lit alley, Clarissa let her eyes create an imaginary yellow halo behind it. Negligibly tremulous in starvation, her arms lifted the heavenly masterpiece to her mouth. Lips stretching to take a bite, she—

In a sudden rush, yellow-and-black, fang-like sticks plummeted into her breakfast, and her face was overcome with something fluffy, multiple ribbons of softness tickling her face. Before she knew it, speeding away from her, reaching miles by the second, was the most devious bird she'd ever seen. Though, it wasn't really a typical crow or sparrow—no, it was for too big to be one. Its tail of feathers was artwork in itself, too, different shades of grey undulating gracefully. But there was something about the canvas of feathers, something that yanked it apart from every other bird there was. From afar, she noticed a patch of its skin just above its right talon was showing, feathers failing to smother it. How did it get there? Was it a person? How—?

Vibrations originating from her stomach shook her yet again, and she was all but forced the bid her doubts farewell, hoping they wouldn't vanish into nothingness as clocks ticked.

Sights set on the soaring thief, she slipped from the unusual alleyway and melted right back into the patchwork of crowd. An angry and determined growl raced from her throat, and she searched around frantically for her flailing breakfast. Heads and hats, kids and noises, they all were conniving snakes trying to file her concentration away. She slithered her way past as many as she could, and hope broke to dust when seconds passed with no sign of the fleeting bird. She tried to search for another few minutes, chafing the sky and buildings, squinting her eyes at high perches and inside the stalls that she could see.

But nothing.

She moaned in sadness, her eyes finding purchase on the gloomy ground. Everything good-tasting and breakfast-worthy costed well over eight coins—and she was now certain the paper-man had given her a discount. Besides, was there really a point to a discount when the actual item was wasted?

Presently, she only possessed three coins, finding irony that she was so barren of money. Her family was among the wealthy side of the scale, even she knew that from a young age. Valentine Morgenstern had started out as a merchant, retailing coal items for diamond prices. It was a cheap way to earn money, yes, yet his words brought on this hypnotizing effect on even the most unwilling. But Valentine had better use for his silken voice and consequently betrayed business to politics. In the short timespan he was given, he made armies of supporters, and piece by piece he built a small empire which he hoped would one day rule the naive community, and perhaps country, around him.

Like a comet crashing down on a wandering planet, disappointment slammed into her none too kindly. The impact of the abrupt emotion dug a black pit in her chest and shoved her body to move, because standing still would, most definitely, deepen that hole. Through the boiling chagrin, she raised her head slightly, her stare grappling onto crystalline water drooling from the limestone fountain choking on coins. It was a noticeable landmark, she realized, one where she could be found with ease.

Exhaling a breath that spoke languages of both weariness and renewed determination, the little girl dragged herself to the fountain, sat at the somewhat moist edge of the basin, and waited for Catarina. Droplets rocketed onto her face at times, and she couldn't help but wonder if they looked like tears.

 **A/N: So I wanted to address a few things:**

 **1- first and foremost, my greatest thanks to HidingBehindMyWords for flawlessly beta-ing through this chapter** **💖💖 Idk how I'd do anything without your help xD**

 **2 - To clear it up, more for my sanity than anything else, the characters will remain children for MAX 2 more chapters. They're going to be fast-paced hopefully because there's still a hell ton of development I want to happen.**

 **3 - Updates** **😬 So I haven't done shit for this story in about a month, I know. The update schedule, well, I don't have one, nor am I planning to, because writing when I'm not inspired or whatever, to put it in its simplest, is worst than shit. And, as finals ended recently and I'm starting a job and all soon, I won't get too much time to do anything.**

 **Until the next!**

 **-RWMS**


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